


shadows of the mess you made

by therm0dynamics



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Anger Management, M/M, Punishment, idk how to classify this it's just really smutty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-16 22:20:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4642209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therm0dynamics/pseuds/therm0dynamics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya’s hands are shaking.</p><p>It’s amazing how <i>dissonant</i> that tic is. For someone who operates with such brutal and quiet efficiency, like the law of conservation of energy incarnate, the excess movement telegraphs like it’s scrawled on his chest in neon paint.</p><p>(aka illya gets angry one time too many and napoleon teaches him a lesson in self-control)</p>
            </blockquote>





	shadows of the mess you made

**Author's Note:**

> now with a [translation into chinese](http://www.movietvslash.com/thread-179753-1-1.html) by taka!! 多谢 :)
> 
> at first i was like well if i write ~scandalous activities~ it’s gotta at least have some context cause i’ve got standards and shit, and then i was like uhhhhh hmmmm yeah maybe not. # O N L Y A L I T T L E S O R R Y
> 
> title from "mykonos" by fleet foxes!!

Illya Kuryakin is an intimidating man - and Napoleon is willing to openly admit this, because only an _idiot_ wouldn’t be afraid of a grim-faced six-five ex-KGB agent built like a tank. Eyes pale as death. Lethal and cold as a knife shoved between the ribs. And Napoleon, he’s a lot of things, but he’s hardly close to being an idiot.

Illya’s anger, however, is a beast of its own. And when it sinks its demon claws into him and sings through his blood, it turns Illya into something downright fucking terrifying. Something primal, more animal than human. It drives him to hurt, to kill, to _destroy_ , heedless of who or what it’s directed at. 

And Napoleon’s tired of it. Tired of having to clean up after his volatile outbursts, tired of revising intricately laid plans on the fly because Illya’s decided in his blind rage that throwing punches and breaking bones is more effective than actual strategy. Being dragged into fights he’d never wanted to start. Wondering if _this_ time is going to be the incident that gets Waverly exposed or them killed or that starts World War III, because in their line of work, all those options always hover unpleasantly on the horizon.

The Lisbon affair is quite nearly that disaster. When the make-or-break moment comes, it nearly doesn’t make because Illya snaps and shivs the Ukrainian gunrunner Waverly’s gunning for because he calls all of Russia a _godforsaken breeding ground for genocidal parasites_. Which, _by the way_ , is an entirely founded accusation, not that Illya would ever find it in him to admit as much - and it’s only by some brilliant tradecraft on Gaby’s part, a forced hostage situation on Napoleon’s end, Waverly calling in a favor from Interpol, and a hasty getaway on a hijacked cargo vessel that they make it out alive.

Waverly, ever playing favorites, scoops Gaby up and retreats back to New York. He leaves Napoleon and Illya to stew in a safe house on the outskirts of Lisbon with strict orders to _stay hidden_ until he and Gaby clean up the shitshow. And God knows how long that’s going to take, God knows how long he’s going to have to stay cooped up with this temperamental berserker and his childish tantrums. 

Napoleon’s fucking furious with it all _._  

Upon arriving at the one-room apartment, Illya settles into the only armchair and stares stolidly out the window, a blank look on his face. Napoleon knows he’s being ignored. The silence quickly congeals into something awkward and bitter, and Napoleon passes the time sitting at the table, nursing glass after glass of whiskey to maybe quiet down the rage boiling in his veins.

He doesn’t make it to sundown before he decides he’s had _enough_ of this. He puts his drink down on the table with a loud _clack_ and pushes his chair back from the table as slowly and obnoxiously as he can. The drawn-out screech of wood on wood is finally enough to get Illya to look over, and Napoleon catches his malevolent stare and holds it.

“I think, Peril,” Napoleon says conversationally, though he’s inwardly suppressing the urge to scream, “it’s time we had a talk about your self-control issues. Or lack thereof.”

Illya snorts. Glances away again. The air in the room hangs stifling and quiet for awhile longer, but Napoleon waits. He knows Illya’s not one to let a perceived slight pass him by - he’s banking on that fact, actually. And sure enough, after a few long minutes of radio silence, he snipes back, “You know, Cowboy, you Americans have such a great expression for this. Pot to kettle. Something of that sort. Very vivid.”

“Ah, you’re mistaken there, big Red,” Napoleon smiles, but there’s precious little humor in it. “See, I have what CIA Medical has labeled _pathologically lowered impulse inhibitions_. You, _tovarisch_ \- “ and now he’s genuinely amused at how Illya chafes at that - “have textbook-perfect anger management issues." 

“Don’t start this,” Illya snaps, and stands up from his chair and starts striding toward the bathroom door. But Napoleon’s closer and he slides in, props himself against the doorframe, a bitter smirk playing across his face. Illya leans right into his personal space. “Get out of my way.”

“I think I’ve been rather generous in overlooking the issue so far," Napoleon says, ignoring Illya entirely. "Didn’t seem like something you wanted me poking at. Fine. Okay. But now you and I are stuck here for the indefinite future because of the mess you created - and don’t you _fucking_ dare argue with me - because you fucked this mission up royally and you know it,” he snaps, cutting Illya off before he can speak, and Illya flinches back as if physically hit. Napoleon’s never been quite so curt to him before, but again, he’s never been quite so _pissed off_ at him, either. 

Thing is, Napoleon’s got a bit of a temper too. It’s near impossible to provoke, but it’s just as ugly when it does rear its head. It’s threatening to now, coiling hot and slick in his belly, forcing itself up his throat. Which, all told, might be hypocritical of him, but since _he’s_ not that one who’d almost blown the mission straight to hell due to his lack of self-discipline, he feels entitled to let it out a little. 

“You do not talk to me like that,” Illya growls. “Ever.”

“I will talk to you however I want, dear Illyushka.”

“ _What_ did you call me?"

“Illyushka,” Napoleon drawls, and smugly glances him over.

Illya’s hands are shaking.

It’s amazing how _dissonant_ that tic is. For someone who operates with such brutal and quiet efficiency, like the law of conservation of energy incarnate, the excess movement telegraphs like it’s scrawled on his chest in neon paint.

“What are you going to do now, Peril?” Napoleon taunts. “Going to sit in the bathtub and sulk some more? Going to destroy this lovely little apartment? That’d be a shame. While I do possess some _inventive_ accounting skills, falsifying the expense reports every time is getting rather tiresome.”

And he knows baiting Illya’s a terrible idea, but since when has that _ever_ stopped him? Even as a child Napoleon’s had the habit of poking his fingers into cages containing enough flashing teeth and sharp claws that he should really know better. Matter of fact, he wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for that particular trait, _so._

And the whiskey hasn’t helped at all, it’s just somehow made everything hazier and more intense at the same time, _especially_ the overwhelming desire to crawl out of his goddamn skin with pent-up edginess and frustration. And Napoleon can think of nothing else he wants more in the _world_ right now than to start a fight and beat some sense into the half-feral Russian spy standing before him who’s about three seconds away from fucking _losing_ it again. 

Still seething, Napoleon slowly pushes off the door frame and saunters over to his partner. All of Illya’s steely fury is now focused on him alone, and the heat of his stare sends a shiver of anticipation skimming down Napoleon’s spine. He wants _blood_.

“ _Or_ are you going to do something about this?” Napoleon asks, steadily holding Illya’s gaze as he brings his hand up before his face and mimics Illya’s tremors before reaching out and shoving him in the shoulder.

That’s all it takes.

With a snarl, Illya leaps and tackles him and they both go _down_. And they roll around around like animals on the ground, slamming into the walls and banging into furniture and sending papers flying as they scrabble for purchase and the upper hand.

Except when Illya grapples for him again, trying to choke him out, Napoleon hooks an arm and a leg under the Russian and neatly flips them so he’s on top - he’s learned a thing or two from watching him work, after all. And his vicious anger suddenly _twists_ into something different and he pushes his thigh between Illya’s legs and grinds down hard against his cock and bites down into the crook of Illya’s neck, equal parts pleasure and pain.

 _That_ does it.

Illya thrashes violently and then goes very still beneath Napoleon. His eyes are wide, blazing pale and wild as Siberian winter.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Illya asks.

And Napoleon’s just as surprised as Illya is because he didn’t really see this coming, either. But the vengeful, voracious part of him is still clamoring for him to punish Illya and Napoleon almost laughs, ‘cause this? This is a _great_ idea. Of the two f-words that generally rule Napoleon’s life, he’d hands down rather fuck than fight. And he knows far better than most that's it’s a tension-wire edge between the two, and that somewhere along the way this situation has swerved way off that line entirely.

“I _think_ I’m going to teach you a little lesson in self-control,” Napoleon says.

“Napoleon. Not funny."

"I'm not laughing."

"Let me up,” Illya says. It’s a weak bluff. They both know full well Illya’s the stronger one. If he wanted out, he’d have thrown Napoleon clear across the room by now.

“Not before you apologize for all the _shit_ you’ve put me through because you can't stop throwing tantrums,” Napoleon says. “Four months we’ve been partners, Illya. You’ve got a _lot_ of apologizing to do.”

But Illya’s not so far gone yet as to forget his pride, and the stubborn set of his jaw tells Napoleon that atonement is going to have to be dragged out of him. All the better. He slides his hands down Illya’s arms, grabs his wrists and pins them above his head.

“Whatever I do,” Napoleon says, moving down to straddle Illya's legs. “You are not to move, agent.”

“Or what?” Illya breathes. But when Napoleon releases him and starts unbuttoning his shirt, he keeps perfectly still. Maybe Illya’s feeling guilty enough to accept his punishment, then. Or maybe the desire burning in his eyes, like his fiery temper, is something else he wants so badly to repress, but _can’t_. Because he lacks the self-restraint, isn’t that the root of all his problems and the reason they're here now.

Still, Napoleon can’t deny the way his breath catches at seeing Illya like this. Like he’s never been before. He tugs Illya’s clothes up over his head and throws them off to the side, leaving the Russian half-naked, lean and pale against the dark tile.

“Or,” Napoleon says, leaning down to whisper softly and sweetly into his ear, “I’ll turn you on till you're crying and begging me for release and then I'll just leave you there to suffer. I'll _destroy_ you, Illya Kuryakin.” He rolls the consonants around on his tongue. The flat Ls, the rolled R and the hard Ks. Turns his name into something mocking. Something dangerous. “Do you understand?”

Illya snarls, but not in anger. They’re _miles_ past that now. And now Napoleon feels properly drunk, but not off the alcohol. Off the power he has. All that raw strength and deadliness stretched out beneath him. Trapped between his legs. All his to discipline.

And Illya looks intoxicated as well, eyes half-shut, face flushed a pretty pink, every line in his body humming with tension. Napoleon could just get him off now and be done with it. It’d be the kind thing to do, given how hard Illya already is from this alone. But that voice in the back of his mind speaks up again, the one that encourages him to steal and lie and poke and prod at forbidden things. How steadfast is Illya’s self-restraint _really_ , it wonders. Does his KGB resilience training to pain and torture extends to _this_ as well? Doesn’t he deserve it after what he's done?

So Napoleon starts with the lightest touch, combing his fingers through Illya’s hair, skating down over his face, to the scar by his brow, down the bridge of his nose. And where his hands roam, his mouth follows. Nipping at Illya’s lips, licking into his parted mouth just long enough to elicit a quiet growl before pulling away.

“Napoleon, it’s not my _fault_ \- ” 

“I didn’t say you could talk, did I?” Napoleon says, and slaps Illya across the face. lllya grunts and shuts his mouth with an audible _click_ of his teeth. 

Satisfied, Napoleon moves on, skating his hands over Illya's jaw and down his collarbone, into the hollow of his throat. Traces down his sternum, fans his fingers over Illya's ribs as he presses open-mouthed kisses to the hard planes of his chest and stomach - every muscle tensed, like steel under velvet.

“God, you’re a stubborn bastard,” Napoleon murmurs.

“Thank - you,” Illya grits out. Still too impertinent for Napoleon’s liking. He slowly skims over all the scars and imperfections marring Illya’s skin, sucking and biting, taking his time with each of them. It’s a damning indictment of the price of Illya’s anger and recklessness, of the price of living this life - stabbings and bullet wounds. Some more unconventional, unidentifiable marks. Bumps under the skin from broken bones that have never set quite right.

For a Russian devil born of snow and ice, Illya burns astonishingly hot, his skin searing against Napoleon's mouth. And he’s breathing raggedly now, loud, harsh pants that belie his desperation.

When Napoleon licks over the crest of his hipbone and bites down hard enough to bruise, Illya finally gasps and bucks his hips. And in response Napoleon eases off and sits up and laughs as Illya practically writhes from the sudden loss of contact.

“I told you to stay still, Peril,” Napoleon says. “Unless that was an _apology_ you were going to give.”

Illya hisses something from between gritted teeth that sounds suspiciously like he’s telling Napoleon to commit an anatomically improbable act. Napoleon shifts around a little, _accidentally_ brushing his leg against Illya’s crotch, and Illya shudders as he tries to keep still.

“Or I could give you some more time to reflect on it. Just leave right now. Would you like me to do that?”

He waits patiently. Illya clenches his jaw and looks away - in shame or defeat, Napoleon can’t tell. And gradually he gives a grudging shake of his head.

“I bet I could stay out all night and you’d still be lying here for me when I got back in the morning, ‘cause you’re a good soldier, aren’t you? Can’t disobey a direct order, can you?”

A small nod and a choked sigh. Napoleon can’t imagine what this cost him to admit.

“Alright then. Listen to me: _control yourself_.” Napoleon slides his hands down Illya’s sides and undoes the button of his pants. He drags the zipper down with his teeth and hooks his fingers in his waistband, pulling his pants and underwear down to his knees, applying as little friction to his cock as possible. 

He nudges Illya’s legs open a little and then starts the process again. Raking his fingernails gently down Illya’s legs, then licking a hot stripe up the inside of his thighs. Over and over again, drawing incrementally closer each time to what Illya's moaning and swearing and practically _choking_ for - ‘cause he’s apparently past the point of holding his silence - but never quite giving him what he needs.

Because he hasn’t broken yet, the devil in Napoleon says. Not yet, not yet, not yet.

And Napoleon’s so lost in this daze, this drawn-out torture that’s finally quieting the simmering itch beneath his skin, that he only belatedly realizes that Illya’s sobbing out something low and broken into the still air of the room, a slur of mixed English and Russian, his accent barely comprehensible in either language. 

“ _Izvini_ , Napoleon, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please, please, _pozhalujsta_ , Napoleon _please_ \- “

And Napoleon knows he’s been spiteful and vindictive, winding Illya up for what feels like hours now, and he’s made an absolute wreck of the man. And this is the breaking point, _finally_. God, but his strength was incredible.

He sits up again and looks at his handiwork - Illya’s hair’s a mess, his pupils blown, lips bitten red from keeping himself silent, sweat-slick skin speckled here and there with purple bruises and hickeys. Stretched out beneath him, arms up and legs spread like some cheap whore. And shaking still, wracked with full-body tremors, but hardly from anger - from the sheer effort of holding himself still.

“Are you going to be good in the future? Not going to drag me into any more bar fights?"

“No, no, _nyet_ \- "

"No more incidents that I’ll have to cover up for? No casualties for Gaby to clean up, nothing to explain to Waverly?”

"I’ll be good, _da_ , I’ll control myself, God -  _please_ \- ”

Alright, says the devil in him, finally satisfied. And Napoleon spits in his hand and wraps it around Illya’s cock and pulls once, twice, three times and that's all it takes. With a cry that sounds like one of pain more than pleasure, Illya thrashes and comes all over his chest and stomach.

Napoleon wipes Illya off with his shirt and slowly stands, ignoring for now the burn low in his gut and his own insistent erection. He thinks he might just be able to look at Illya forever, this incoherent fucked-out mess sprawled on the cold floor of the apartment. Lying there with his chest heaving and eyes hazy and every joint and muscle in his body loose as he comes down from his long-delayed orgasmic high. All Napoleon’s doing.

But the cruelty in him has retreated now, and he loops his arms around Illya’s chest and heaves the whole solid mass of him onto the closer of the two beds in the room and crawls right up against him and curls up.

In retrospect, maybe he’s not the most effective teacher, cause Illya’s smiling a little like he enjoyed that more than he should’ve. But oh well, Napoleon thinks. He feels a warm sleepiness settle over him and silence descends again on the moonlit room - nighttime proper in Lisbon, the slow soothing sound of waves drifting in from outside. The prospect of waiting out next few days doesn’t seem so bad anymore. Because somehow, Napoleon highly doubts that the both of them are going to forget this lesson anytime soon.

**Author's Note:**

> usual apologies for overuse of italics, long-windedness, and being really bad at wrapping things up. hope you enjoyed, let me know what you think!


End file.
